


This Is My Desperation In Action

by roquentine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Bit of Fluff, Angst, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John is a Bit Not Good, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-17 01:27:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9298091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roquentine/pseuds/roquentine
Summary: It's been a bad day.





	

Upstairs, Sherlock stands in the doorway, watching John sleep.

John is on his stomach, a sheet covering his lower half. His hands are balled into fists under the pillow, his elbows tucked in at his sides, which pushes his shoulder blades up just a bit. The too-smooth, too-white scar tissue catches the only bit of light in the room.

With a frown Sherlock climbs onto the bed and straddles John across his thighs. He’s not particularly stealthy about it, so John startles awake and pushes up onto his elbows in a reflex. “Fuck…” he mutters, sighing as he realizes what has just happened. He drops his head loosely. “Sherlock, I’m sleeping.”

“But this isn’t where you sleep,” Sherlock says.

John tucks his arms in again and settles his head into the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut. “It is when you act like a total fucking prat. Go away.”

Sherlock is very, very still. “John…” he whispers.

“Christ, Sherlock…” John hitches up again and slides himself forward, pulling his legs out from under Sherlock until he has enough room to turn over. He sits down heavily with his back against the headboard and sighs. “We had a fight. We’re going to fight from time to time. It’s normal. And when we fight, we might need to spend some time in separate rooms.”

Sherlock sits back on his heels. “Not for the night.”

John nods. “Sometimes...”

Sherlock cuts him off, fast and sharp: “No.”

John stares at him coolly. “You don’t get to decide where I sleep, Sherlock.”

“Then I’ll sleep here too,” Sherlock says, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

John’s anger is palpable but quiet, evident in the slow, even cadence of his response. “No, you won’t. Go back downstairs and go to bed. I will see you in the morning.”

Sherlock doesn’t move. Neither does John.

They stare at each other for a moment, then Sherlock begins to lean forward. John’s hands meet Sherlock’s chest defensively, but there’s not strength behind them, not yet, and Sherlock ignores them.

“No… Sherlock…” Sherlock covers his mouth, and John’s words are swallowed momentarily, but in short order John grips Sherlock’s collarbone and pushes him back. They stare at each other for another second.

“You’re making it worse,” John says in a low growl, his eyes darkened. “I asked you to leave…”

“ _Told_ me to leave…”

“...and you’re not leaving.”

Sherlock’s stubborn facade dissolves, his eyes widen. His mouth moves for a second before he forms the whispered words: “I can’t.”

“You really can,” John answers, his voice still calm and quiet. “You can choose to respect what I have just told you I need right now. You _can_ do that.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says, his voice still a whisper.

“I know you are. And you still need to go.” John releases his grip on Sherlock’s shoulders and drops his hands to his lap, folding them together, waiting.

Sherlock moves back until his feet find the floor and he pushes himself up from the bed. He stands there as John shifts down and punches the pillow before settling his head into it, facing away from the door.

Sherlock turns and walks slowly out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him with a soft, unsteady click.

* * * * *

When John comes downstairs in the middle of the night for a glass of water, Sherlock is curled awkwardly on his chair, his unfocused eyes staring straight ahead.

He doesn’t move a muscle when John enters. Or when John opens a cupboard, removes a glass, turns on the tap, turns it off, drinks the water, and sets the glass down.

He doesn’t acknowledge John as he sits in his own chair, or for the several silent minutes that follow.

He doesn’t move until he hears John’s steady, quiet voice.

“Come here.”

At this, Sherlock blinks back into the present and angles his head up. “What?”

“You heard me,” John says calmly. He looks over at Sherlock, but his face is expressionless, betraying no hint of his intentions.

Sherlock slowly pushes himself to a sitting position, then slides off the chair onto his knees. He shuffles forward to close the short distance, and waits.

John clears his throat and leans forward. His voice is low, barely above a whisper. “I need to make sure we’re on the same page right now. This is what you want, right?”

Sherlock nods silently, his gaze lowering to the floor.

John sighs and sits back. “All right, then. Get me off.” He sinks a little into the chair, sliding his hips forward. “And take your time about it.”

Sherlock exhales in something that sounds almost like relief. He pulls up onto his knees and leans forward, seeking a kiss, but for the second time tonight John puts a hand to his chest and stops him.

“No.” He shakes his head just once. “We’re not there yet. Use your mouth in other ways for now.”

Sherlock falls back to his heels. After a few moments, he lets his hands drift to John’s abdomen, his fingers curling over the waistband of his pyjama bottoms and pants. John helps him out, lifting his hips off the chair, and Sherlock slides the clothing off his body.

He traces up John’s legs and slowly smooths his palms over the tops of John’s thighs, as though he is feeling them for the first time. He leans forward and presses his mouth to a hipbone, running his tongue over the skin, tasting it, while the fingertips of his right hand skate over John’s cock, twitching to life under his touch.

Sherlock’s tongue traces a path up the shaft of his cock, and John groans as Sherlock closes a fist around the base. He pumps slowly with his hand, pulling back the foreskin, and then laps at the slit, sucking at the salty liquid he finds there. Finally, he circles his lips around the head and slides down, slowly, almost loosely, slicking his way with saliva. He opens his mouth and pulls up, touching only his tongue to the thick vein underneath. He does it a second time, and John lets his head fall back for only a second, thrusting up into Sherlock’s mouth, craving a tighter heat, but he’s the one who told Sherlock to go slow.

Sherlock pulls off, hollowing his cheeks and moaning like John is the most delicious thing he’s ever had in his mouth. He pumps him leisurely with his hand and mouth together a few times, then scoots forward a bit on his knees, lifting the angle of his head slightly. He reaches forward to grasp John’s hips. He slides about halfway down, inhales and exhales, then shoves quickly, with certain determination, lodging the head of John’s cock in his throat.

“Fuck,” John mutters, staring down at the sight in his lap. Sherlock holds himself there for two seconds, maybe three, before quickly lifting off. He’s sputtering, drooling, his eyes watering, messy, gorgeous, and he takes a deep breath and does it again.

“God, Sherlock,” and John can’t resist the urge to thrust into him, biting back the apology that almost escapes when Sherlock gags on him.

He’s not sure he’s ever seen anything hotter than the line of saliva that hangs from Sherlock’s mouth when he pulls off to cough and catch his breath.

Sherlock, his eyes locked on John’s, pushes his tongue out of his mouth and lets it hang there for a second before moving it back to the head of John’s cock.

“Oh, fuck you,” John mutters, finally closing his eyes and giving over to the sensation. His head falls back when he feels Sherlock’s fist wrap around him once more, working in tandem with this mouth, and John is no longer interested in delaying. He starts thrusting his hips in rhythm with Sherlock’s pulls, and grips the sides of the chair with all his might.

He doesn’t last another full minute before the words are tumbling out mindlessly. “Sherlock… yes… just like that… God, yes, I’m...” At the exact right moment, Sherlock slams him into the back of his throat and John explodes, feeling Sherlock swallow repeatedly through his orgasm, then sliding along the shaft with less and less pressure, mouthing at him until John swears once more and roughly shoves him back.

Sherlock sits back on his heels again. His eyes are on fire with satisfaction, his lips red and wet as he gasps for breath, and his own erection is straining the cloth of his pyjamas. He locks his gaze with John and slowly drags the back of a hand across his mouth, a filthy, defiant gesture.

John’s eyes narrow and his mouth curls up just a bit, just for a fraction of a second.

He knows a dare when he sees it.

Sherlock watches intently as John leans forward and slides a hand down Sherlock’s right arm, encircling his wrist almost delicately, then slowly pulls it forward. Sherlock follows him, straightening up on his knees. Bringing Sherlock’s palm to his mouth, John licks it, loose and messy, once, then twice, as Sherlock sucks in an audible breath through his teeth.

John sits back. “Get yourself off now. Push your pants down just enough for me to see you. And you don’t get to take your time. Make it quick.”

Sherlock hooks his thumbs inside his pyjamas and hitches them down over his erection to the middle of his thighs. He smears John’s saliva over the shaft of his cock, then slides the flat of his palm over the head, adding the pre-ejaculate to the crude lubrication, and starts to slide his fist up and down, slowly at first, then building speed to a steady rhythm. His eyes fall closed.

“No. Look at me,” John demands sharply. Sherlock complies, and his expression is dark, heavy-lidded.

“Go faster, Sherlock. I want to see how soon you can come for me.” Sherlock huffs out a breath as he continues to jerk at his cock, increasing his pace, twisting his wrist in an effort to add stimulation. He groans intently as he works up to the fastest rhythm he can manage, his other hand reaching toward the arm of John’s chair for balance.

“Let’s go.” John’s voice is impatient, demanding. “You need to come, Sherlock. Quickly.”

Sherlock groans quietly as he stops to spit into his hand, then resumes at his previous speed. Even in the dim light, John can see that his cock has gone dark red, almost purple, and is swollen beyond its usual fullness. Sherlock’s breathing is loud and stuttered, and beads of sweat have started to pop on his forehead.

His gaze is still locked on John’s, but he’s almost looking through him now, panting, his fist pumping fast and shameless. He’s clearly unaware of the desperate sounds coming from the back of his throat on every exhale, the tears that have formed in his unseeing eyes.

Suddenly, the urge to relent overwhelms John in such a rush he almost feels his chest sink under its weight. Everything that’s happened tonight up until this moment, the fight, the anger, the storming off to his old bedroom, the dominating role he’s been indulging since he came downstairs, it all rushes down and out of him, into the floor, forgotten in an instant.

Because Sherlock Holmes is clearly lost, and John Watson will never be able to let him stay lost.

“Sher… Sherlock.” It comes out a whisper, and John clears his throat to find his voice. “Sherlock, love, it’s okay, you can stop. You’re… I think you’re overstimulated.” John slides off the chair, falling quietly to his knees, and reaches for Sherlock’s wrist again. He gently stops its motion, pulling it off his cock, which bobs obscenely back up toward his stomach, still rock hard and strained.

Sherlock’s breath hitches as John rubs gently at his wrist for a second, feeling the pulse pounding under his fingertips. He slides his hand slowly up to the back of Sherlock’s neck, slick with sweat, and presses his mouth to Sherlock’s equally damp forehead, tasting the salt he finds there.

“Listen to me.” He pulls back and ducks his head to catch Sherlock’s line of vision, which is still looking past him, unfocused. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Just relax for a minute. You’re okay. It’s… it’s okay.” He soothes him until Sherlock’s eyes finally fall closed and his breathing is deep and even.

Then, intentionally but slowly, wary of offering any more sensation, John brushes his lips against Sherlock’s. A gentle, chaste apology.

Sherlock’s response is equally calm, and an unspoken understanding passes between them.

Their mouths stay connected as they slowly rise to their knees and close the distance between them. Palms skate over arms and backs, undemanding. The quiet kiss continues, light, almost shy, just lips and breath, taste and touch, the heat of deeper passion held at bay in favor of this moment, this reconnection of their broken circuits. They kiss and kiss, regret and forgiveness passing between them, until equilibrium is restored.

And then, in a rush, the fire comes back, overwhelming. John’s hand grips the back of Sherlock’s neck and angles his head, working his jaw wide open. He leans them backwards, reaching for the floor to break their fall, and groans into Sherlock’s mouth as he presses him into the carpet, shifting up to straddle his hips.

Their kisses are now all tongues and heat and sheer need, as palpable now as it was the first time they ever did this. John moves down to suck at Sherlock’s neck as he ghosts his fingertips down along Sherlock’s straining ribcage, and laughs when he feels a groan vibrate right where his mouth is pressed. He sits up and shifts back to draw his hands down over Sherlock’s thighs, catching the waistband of his pants and pyjama bottoms, pulling them down as Sherlock brings his knees up one a time to help shuck them off.

John leans over Sherlock’s middle and gazes down at him. “Okay?” he asks simply. He wants to give Sherlock a chance to stop him if he isn’t ready, but Sherlock exhales his assent, his eyes closing as he lets his head drop back to the floor. John mouths at a hipbone. “Don’t think, love. Don’t think about anything, just feel me.”

He takes Sherlock into his mouth, gently at first, then increasing the pressure, feeling him harden again against his tongue. He is wary of going either too fast or too slow; they are done with games for tonight, done with domination and punishment, done with denying and delaying. He doesn’t want to draw it out; it doesn’t need to be mind-blowing, not now, not this time. He wants only to make Sherlock feel _good_ , to unwind the tension and heightened stimulation from earlier, to build his pleasure and find his release and let it suffuse him, envelop him, satisfy him.

And so Sherlock comes quietly but powerfully, his torso lifting off the carpet, his breath catching for a long moment, then exhaling with a shudder. His hands scrabble at his sides and John slides his arms forward to catch them in his own, grounding Sherlock through the aftermath, waiting until he feels every muscle beneath him relax before he lets go.

John rests his head on Sherlock’s stomach while they recover. A few minutes pass in silence, and he wonders if Sherlock has fallen asleep, until he feels Sherlock’s hand thread gently, almost tentatively, through his hair. Fingertips rub slowly at the base of his neck, and something in his chest that had been out of place all night realigns itself, and he closes his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” comes the whispered voice behind him. “About today. I know I’m… I’m a nightmare sometimes. I love you.”

“Me too, and me too, and me too,” John replies, lifting his head and pressing a kiss into Sherlock’s stomach. He shifts up to his elbows, and looks over at him. “Bed? Might be a bit more comfortable.”

He sees a shadow cross Sherlock’s face, and a wave of regret passes through him. He nods toward their room. “Down here, I mean. Together.” They’ll hash it out in words tomorrow, they both know they can’t skip that part anymore, but it’s been a long night, and it’s enough that they’ve found their way back to this moment already. For now, it’s more than enough.

“Yes, please,” Sherlock replies. “A rugburned back at my age is just ridiculous.” He winces as he sits up, casting a terribly fake glance of annoyance at John’s giggle as they use the floor and the furniture and each other to finally pull themselves to their feet.

Then their eyes meet one more time, and without even thinking about it, they close the space between them and seek one more kiss from each other, gentle and affirming, before they move quietly to their bedroom and collapse into sleep.


End file.
